


Plug in Baby

by MittenCrab



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch, E-stim, Edging, Erotic Electrostimulation, Humiliation, M/M, Omorashi, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, Overstimulation, Piss kink, Wetting, non-safe e-stim, non-sexual torture (of background character)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:18:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7988122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MittenCrab/pseuds/MittenCrab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants the hands that have given him justice, life, a weapon, to tangle in his hair and grip his skin until it bruises, like they’re teaching him how to be alive. There isn’t a word for what they have between them. It’s something that runs under the skin, like dirty blood, and he needs it more than he’s ever needed anything else.</p><p>[The thing between McCree and Reyes is dangerous, and they both know it. It doesn't stop them trying. (Commission, PWP)]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plug in Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Commissioned by @sinyatta on Twitter. Thank you so much for commissioning me!! I had so much fun with this. Probably the grossest thing I've ever written in my life and I had a blast.
> 
> Thanks to [Carrionflower](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrionflower) for being, as always, the best beta. Your beady eyes spot everything and I am forever in debt to you for your great talents and great friendship. Any and all mistakes that remain are mine alone.
> 
> It shouldn't even need to be said, but McCree is in his twenties here. I also feel like I should point out that this is an **incredibly unsafe** way to e-stim and you should never use homemade setups. Be safe please!

He is watching a man being tortured when Reyes approaches him. Jesse is so sickeningly captivated by the sight of muscle spasming under electric current that he almost jumps when he hears the voice in his ear.

 

“You know why we do it like this?”

 

He glances up sharply. Reyes has snuck up right behind him, and the sheer bulk of him this close makes Jesse’s mouth go dry. The other man has his muscular arms folded, beanie hat pulled low, one eyebrow raised in question. His slouch is almost nonchalant, disinterested even, but Jesse knows better than to let his guard down. The air of the interrogation room feels thick, stale, and the back of his neck is damp. Under Reyes’ stare he feels like he’s being tested, weighed up. Quickly, he looks away again. His eyes settle on the weapons trafficker strapped to a folding chair. 

 

It’s taken hours, but their latest prey is just about ready to talk. They always do, eventually. Blackwatch exists to clean the filth too feculent for Overwatch to tarnish their immaculate blue and silver hands with, and it does so with fierce efficiency. The man’s eyes are glassy, feverish, as though he’s dreaming. He’s been stripped down, left to shiver in the sticky dampness of his own fear, his pallid skin greasy with it. The room smells heavily of sweat and iron and stale urine, of the human body broken to splinters. 

 

Jesse has seen men pulled apart before, seen it plenty, but this is something new altogether. There’s a subtle art in the way the prongs thrum and sing, something almost refined about the way the body jerks violently under them. It’s dirty, but as he’s come to learn, the world is goddamn dirty, and playing by the rules won’t make it any cleaner. The TALON agents, the child traffickers, the arms dealers feeding two mouths at war with one another - all of them fall to Blackwatch to clean up when Overwatch is busy running glossy media campaigns and feeding the age-old hunger for heroics. Any childhood illusions of flawless heroes have been scoured from his mind a long time ago, ever since he was scraped up bruised and bleeding by Gabriel Reyes and given a chance to be  _ someone _ . It’s a new breed of hero they’re nurturing here, the kind of saviour built of bruises and snapped bone. Blackwatch happens behind closed doors for a reason.

 

He shakes his head slowly. “No, Boss.” 

 

“Those things are high voltage, low current. Know what that means, kid? It means -” He pauses as the prongs come down again and the man makes a low whimpering noise that isn’t quite human. Jesse swallows thickly. “This won’t kill him. Oh, sure, it’ll feel like it might. Hell, he’ll damn well wish it did. But it won’t. We can do this  _ all _ day.” 

 

The man in the chair makes a strangled sobbing sound at the suggestion, before his body is convulsing again, so sharply that Jesse hears his teeth clatter. 

 

“You see?” Reyes says. Jesse nods idly. The room feels too warm. The whitewashed walls seem to be closing in, slowly narrowing until he’s sure he’s going to suffocate.

 

There is silence. The pair of them watch for a moment as the man is questioned again. Jesse watches the stiffness of the trafficker’s jaw, the way the muscles spasm and clench as he struggles to hold his tongue. He’s reminded of the frantic, terrified struggle of a horse before its spirit finally snaps.

 

“You ever been electrocuted?” Reyes asks quietly, and something in his voice, low and dangerous, makes Jesse shiver hotly. He’s suddenly uncomfortably aware of how close their bodies are to each other, of the tight, muscular heat of Reyes’ chest inches from his back. 

 

“I- no. No, Boss. Never.” 

 

“You ever wonder what it feels like? Being strapped down to that chair, at someone’s mercy?”

 

And there it is. Reyes’ voice is languid, as though none of this really matters, but his hand is suddenly on Jesse’s shoulder, firm and warm, and the weight of it makes heat rush to his face. He bites his tongue hard enough to taste blood, embarrassed at his own transparency, wills himself to focus on the torture in front of him. The prongs are humming again, like swarming fireflies bursting with terrifying energy.

  
This time, when the electricity meets skin, Reyes’ hand presses into his shoulder, and Jesse inhales so suddenly that he almost chokes. He’s oddly grateful for the trembling scream that forces itself out of the trafficker’s mouth. It covers the sound of air catching in his own throat. Vaguely, he knows that this is sick, this game they’re playing. It doesn’t stop his chest from feeling like it’s about to burst open into bright, hissing sparks. 

 

Reyes is still waiting for him to answer. The dazed eyes of the trafficker roll a little, end up meeting his own. Jesse shudders. He’s suddenly unsure who is really being interrogated here. 

 

“I ain’t really thought about it before,” he manages eventually. There’s a prickling sensation at the back of his neck, scratching along his arms.

 

He dares to look up, and sees that the corner of Reyes’ mouth is quirking up into a self-satisfied smile. The tortured man yells again, and the sharp smell of leaking urine fills the room anew. Reyes leans down, so close that Jesse almost trembles. Desperately, he tries to force himself to concentrate, to breathe normally. 

 

“Maybe I’ll teach you one day, cowboy,” he says in his ear.

 

And then, all at once, he is gone. Jesse finally lets himself relax, breathes out a slow, shuddering breath that he hadn’t realised he was holding. His trousers feel tight.   
  


 

* * *

 

 

It’s three weeks later that he finds himself called to Reyes’ office, and he’s all but forgotten their conversation in the interrogation room. Jesse noses his way inside the door without bothering to knock, hands in his pockets, smoking a cigarette. Reyes is tapping frantically at his keyboard, eyebrows furrowed as he scans the holo displays in front of him. He doesn’t look up, not even when Jesse positions himself obnoxiously close to the desk.

 

“Wanted to see me, Boss?” he says, trying to hide the excitement bubbling deep in his chest. 

 

The room smells of over-brewed coffee. When he lets his gaze fall, he counts three separate mugs, all empty. Jesse wonders, not for the first time, how the man hasn’t burned out spectacularly. He’s never quite sure if ability to work and work and keep on working is part of the super soldier programme, or if it’s just Reyes overcompensating for something. Idly, he takes a drag of his cigarette. 

 

“Put that out,” Reyes mutters, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, still browsing through the wall of text on his screen. McCree stubs it out obediently and waits.

 

With one last stroke of the keyboard, Reyes scrubs a hand down his face, stretches, and stares directly at him. Jesse swallows. There’s a slight gleam in Reyes’ eyes that he can’t read, and without knowing why, he shudders from the base of his spine. Subconsciously, he stands a little straighter. There’s something in the silence that makes it feel as though he’s being mapped out like one of their marks, each aspect of him calculated and considered, weak points identified. 

 

The weakest point of all is called ‘Gabriel Reyes’.

 

Finally, the other man speaks: “Let’s take a walk.”

  
Jesse follows him down the long corridors of Blackwatch HQ. The sound of Reyes’ footsteps echoes in his ears. As they pass, other agents glance at him, eyeing the way he walks behind their commander, and he can’t help but feel an odd sting of pride, sharp and warm in his stomach like whiskey. 

 

From the moment he watched Reyes open his files and tamper with the birthdate on his paperwork, he’s known that he’s not supposed to be here, not really. He’s seen the way Strike Commander Morrison looks at him as though he’s not sure whether to feel anger or pity, heard the barked, snarling arguments about fact he was brought into Blackwatch. But Reyes makes him feel like this is his home, like he’s worth something more than just another finger on a trigger. Walking with him, gripped in the cool authority he always exudes, Jesse feels like he’s earned this. He’s earned the right to wear this uniform, to stand beside the man who offered him a hand and tugged him up into this new world with its new rules, new justice. He’s earned the right to walk through fire for him.

 

As they get closer, he finally understands what Reyes is planning. His palms itch with anticipation as they come to a halt outside the interrogation room. A little thrill skitters up his spine, terror mingling with arousal. He knows exactly what this means. Reyes slowly keys in the door code, places his palm flat against the scanner. 

 

The scent of disinfectant and recycled air hits his nose as the door slides open with a hiss. Jesse follows Reyes inside, glances around at the blank white walls. In Deadlock, they used to conduct interrogations in grimy back chambers, smeared with lines of dried blood and the stink of human ephemera. Blackwatch intimidation is different - hyper-professional, almost lazy in its authority, but somehow it makes the the nervousness coiling at the base of his stomach tighter. 

 

The prods lie neatly on the surface of an otherwise empty desk. Waiting.    
  
“You can refuse,” Reyes says as the door seals behind them. His voice is low and even. Reyes is staring directly into his eyes, and Jesse finds that it’s difficult to look away. His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth. “I’m not gonna count it against you.”

 

He knows this. They both know this. This conversation happens each and every time. He’s never sure who it’s supposed to reassure.

 

The truth is, refusal has never been an option. Ever since he first saw Reyes, smeared with ash and blazing with divine anger, he’s wanted  _ this _ . He wants the hands that have given him justice, life, a weapon, to tangle in his hair and grip his skin until it bruises, like they’re teaching him how to be alive. There isn’t a word for what they have between them. It’s something that runs under the skin, like dirty blood, and he needs it more than he’s ever needed anything else. 

 

Some people might call it hero-worship, but when it comes down to it, Gabriel Reyes doesn’t look a goddamn thing like the shining, clean-lined heroes in the TV serials he used to flick through as a kid. Overwatch is full of  _ heroes _ , and it does nothing for him. But Reyes is something different, something  _ more _ , and it makes Jesse’s head rush. He’s devastating retribution made flesh, a hymn to sweat and bone and the dusty scent of gunpowder. At night, Jesse fucks his own hand like it’s a ritual, some new-age form of worship for this new-age form of god. He’s come more times than he cares to think about to the idea of Reyes commanding him to get on his knees, the image of Reyes’ ass in those damn over-tight Blackwatch issue trousers. 

 

He’s already far too deep in this to get out. Sometimes, he thinks Reyes is too.

 

“I want to,” he says, too quickly.   
  
Reyes stares at him for a second, dark eyes narrowed and thoughtful. Jesse is almost embarrassed by how eager he must look, by how easy he must be to read. When he finally speaks, it’s like a battlefield order:

 

“Clothes off, cowboy.”

 

Jesse’s hands tremble as he starts fumbling with his uniform. He doesn’t even need to look up to know that Reyes’ eyes are fixed on him. There’s something horribly arousing about it, about feeling like every aspect of him is being scrutinised to see if he’s worthy. Part of him thinks that it’s fucked up to get off on this. Part of him is far too high on the idea of Reyes and his approval to give a damn. Not that he’s getting much approval struggling with his shirt buttons like an overeager teenager. 

 

And then Reyes is in front of him, too close. He smells like spice and salt and Jesse almost chokes. 

 

“Breathe, kid. No need to be spooked.”

 

“I ain’t-” he starts to protest, but the words stick. Reyes is so close and so warm and so  _ much _ , and the headrush of being allowed to be here with him makes Jesse’s brain stutter. 

 

The other man just clicks his tongue softly and calls him something in Spanish that Jesse thinks is probably less than complimentary. It makes heat pool in his crotch. Suddenly, Reyes’ hands, the hands that once pulled him up from his own blood, are at Jesse’s shirt, stripping him down with the cool efficiency he always seems to exude. He feels commanded and protected all at once, and just knowing that in this room he  _ belongs _ to somebody makes him want to whimper.

 

There’s a single moment when hot, calloused fingertips linger on his hip, just a shadow of tenderness. His chest feels like brilliant splinters of glass ready to spill onto the floor. He tries to remember how to pull air into his lungs.

 

“Breathe,” Reyes says again, firmer, this time, stroking a languid, calculated line across the soft skin of Jesse’s stomach in a way that doesn’t help matters in the slightest. The feeling of the other man’s fingers on his skin makes him want to whine.

 

He clenches his hands so tightly that his nails bite into his palms, fights the roaring urge to grab at Reyes’ shirt and tangle his fingers into it and kiss him until he can’t think anymore. Every time they’re together like this, he knows he can’t be adored. Not the right place. Not the right time. He knows that that part of Gabriel Reyes has been scorched and clawed like a combat zone, that it was fenced off years ago in an effort to stop the hemorrhaging. It doesn’t stop him from wanting it so badly that he aches.

 

Naked, he’s guided to the chair, sat down, head spinning. The metal is cool against his skin, enough to make him shiver. Immediately, he sits as straight as he can, blinks, looks up at the other man expectantly. He’s eager to please, eager to prove that he can do  _ this _ . The corner of Reyes’ mouth lifts a little in silent approval, just the slightest bit, but enough to make something inside him crackle with excitement like ashes sparking into life. His whole body feels volatile, as though it might burst into flames under Reyes’ grip.  

 

“This is how we’re gonna do this,” Reyes says, ever the commander. He’s still in full uniform, even the chestplate, effortlessly staking his authority. It’s a cool reminder that they’re here on his terms, playing by his rules. It makes Jesse feels helpless and the thought alone is enough to make him shudder with arousal. He watches as Reyes steps over to the desk, fiddles with the control box. The air cracks as the prongs wake from their slumber. “We start low. The second you want out, you tell me. This isn’t a torture session, kid. You got that?”

 

Quickly, he nods, eyes fixed on the prongs. Their hum fills the room, smooth and hedonic and dangerous, and he’s already lost in it. A cold, prickling sensation ripples through him like water. He starts to wonder if this is too far, if it hurts, if it burns as they touch skin. He swallows.

 

Jesse watches as Reyes takes the prods in his hands, weighs them up. The air in the room starts to feel thick. There is sweat pooling at the base of his back and anticipation blooming beneath his ribs and Jesse knows he is too far into this to turn back.

 

Every step that Reyes takes towards him, every dull thump as his boots hit the floor, makes his stomach jolt. He can’t differentiate between fear and arousal any more. It’s all shaken together like sand in a storm, twisted and curled until it’s just one thundering cyclone crashing through him. He looks up, into the deep brown of Reyes’ eyes.

 

“Okay?”

 

Jesse nods. Reyes’ glance travels lazily down his body, trailing down to his exposed crotch, and he shivers involuntarily, because this is what  _ this  _ is all about. It’s not about love, because Reyes has put too many walls up for that. It’s about getting off, about using each other to cum. It’s entirely fucked up, and it feels so goddamn  _ good _ . There is tight, brilliant heat beginning to pulse between his thighs. His mouth is dry.

 

“Do I need to restrain you?” Reyes asks, his voice like silk. All at once, Jesse he sees his chance to impress. The way Reyes’ eyes spark whenever he does well in his training, the small smiles he makes when he’s  _ pleased _ with Jesse are like a drug to him, and he’s hopelessly addicted to the rush that comes with knowing that he’s won some approval. He just wants to please Reyes, to feel that thrill of knowing that he’s made him  _ proud _ . 

 

“No,” he says, too quickly, and then adds, “boss.”  Reyes’ eyebrow jerks up at that, and Jesse bites his tongue. He tries to sit straighter, spread his legs wider, to prove that he can do this, that he’s  _ good _ . He’s only ever wanted to be good for Reyes. Every time they’re together he’s aware of how young he must look, just a desperate whelp next to this self-assured new-age god.

 

But when Reyes lets out a small huff of laughter, shaking his head, and it makes it all feel worthwhile.“Dumb kid,” he says, almost fondly. Heat rushes to Jesse’s face. 

 

And then there is a throb of electricity through his dick and he almost yelps. 

 

The first shock is like nothing he’s ever experienced. He’d been expecting pain, but instead there’s just a strange vibrating sensation skittering in his veins. It’s both gentle and pin-prick keen, tingling that stutters through him in a cascade. It’s like the tremble in the air after a gunshot - hazy-sharp, intangible. His mind falters, trying to make sense of the way current pulses through skin and muscle.

 

There’s soft warmth fizzing through his dick and into his balls, strange but oddly pleasant, like a hundred different fingertips ghosting over him all at once. His nerves are sparkling white and hot-cold. He’s never felt anything like it before.

 

“Huh,” he says, blinking, as the prods are pulled back. They’re humming and singing and alive and his skin prickles where they’ve touched. Reyes is looking straight into his eyes, checking for something, and he stares back, eager to please. 

 

“I can take more,” he says, hoping it’s what the other man wants to hear. He  _ wants  _ more, wants to do everything for Reyes, wants to break himself down into splinters for him. 

 

Reyes sighs, clicks his tongue, “I told you, this isn’t a torture session.”

 

“I can take it, I ain’t-”

 

“This isn’t about how much you can  _ take _ ,” Reyes cuts him off. “You need to learn to slow down. Think before you goddamn shoot, kid, Jesus.” 

 

For a second, Jesse is worried that that’s it, that he’s blown it with his asinine inability to hold his own goddamn tongue, but then Reyes touches the prods to his dick again and lets the electricity flow through him.

 

Everything is new, like learning how to be alive, and he loses himself in it. The current ricocheting through him is like having Reyes shot straight into his veins and it’s so good that he almost moans. The tingling static builds slowly but surely, warm pressure that spreads through his stomach like liquid gold. He sits quivering, sweat building on his skin as the vibration tugs beyond his control, and tries to focus on keeping his legs spread. 

 

When he lets himself snatch a glance at Reyes’ crotch, he can see the Blackwatch issue trousers pulling taut around the outline of his dick. He tries to swallow, feeling his throat constrict. Just knowing that he’s making Reyes hard, that he’s being  _ good _ for him is enough to make his own dick twitch involuntarily. His mind blazes with the image of getting on his knees, of having his mouth full of sweat and dick and cum, of letting Reyes wreck him and fuck his throat until it’s raw, of being used and dirtied and making Reyes  _ proud _ . 

 

It doesn’t take long before he’s panting, filled with tense, swelling heat that makes him shudder. His thighs spasm unwillingly, desperate to pull closed because it’s too  _ much  _ and he realises far too late that he really should have asked to be restrained, but Reyes is looking down at him with that goddamn intense look that makes his throat feel tight, so he hooks his ankles around the legs of the flimsy metal chair in desperation, gripping the seat so hard that he’s almost sure it’ll snap in his hands. The other man is standing over him, god-like, all thick muscle and raw authority and so  _ obviously  _ hard in his too-tight uniform that Jesse’s sure it must be uncomfortable. He bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from making the sounds that want to bubble out of his throat, breath coming in fast, nervous gasps. 

 

Just when he’s sure he’s got things under control, when he’s convinced himself he can be quiet, Reyes turns up the current, and he falls to pieces. His mouth falls open and he whimpers, actually  _ whimpers _ , a hiccuping, pathetic little noise that he’s too sex-addled to be embarrassed by. The prods are buzzing with brighter, harsher intensity and he can barely breathe, can only pant and moan and try to hold the pieces of himself together. It’s like having his dick stroked from the inside, fucked and fucking all at once, overwhelming to a point that borders on painful. He’s alive and shivering in his own sweat, and helplessly needy. 

 

Jess’s hips jerk in little shallow thrusts until he feels pleasure flood down his thighs. Each time he exhales it catches in his throat, a little whining  _ uh  _ that gets higher and louder as Reyes pushes and pushes and pushes him towards release. He wants to hold off, wants to stop, but he’s hurtling too fast towards climax, so tense and eager with the need to  _ cum  _ that it hurts, pulled out too tightly like a cord ready to snap. It’s all too good and too much. His vision swims. 

 

“Fuck,” he moans, broken, silence forgotten in the blinding rush of pleasure, “oh please - fuck-”

 

He teeters, gasps, clenches his hands so hard he’s sure they’ll bleed. His body is rushing and so wonderfully, blindingly tight, and vaguely he realises that he’s going to cum all over himself in a sticky, wet rush.

 

The prods disappear. It’s so sudden that it’s almost like Reyes has slapped him across the face. He blinks hard, a strangled noise of surprise yanking its way from his throat. When he looks up, Reyes is smirking, self-satisfied, like he’s goddamn  _ pleased _ about Jesse’s confusion at being grabbed away from the brink of climax. 

 

“What did I tell you? You need to learn to  _ slow the fuck down _ ,” Reyes says, voice so surprisingly warm that it makes Jesse tremble. Suddenly there’s a hand along his jaw and he leans into it, gasping. The smell of spice and sweat fills his nose. He almost mewls, sickeningly grateful for Reyes and his particular breed of affection.

 

“Good,” Reyes says eventually, voice low. 

 

He still doesn’t return the prods. Jesse has no damn clue what’s taking him so long. Arousal snarls between his thighs, rabid and hungry, desperate for anything to provide relief. He wriggles uncomfortably. Pressure sits heavy in his pelvis, like liquid smoke. 

 

“Boss,” he manages, “I thought you said this ain’t meant to be torture.”

 

Reyes chokes out a laugh then, a rough little huffing sound, and looks down at him with exasperation. 

 

“Ingrate,” he says, shakes his head in mock disbelief. “You sure I don’t need to tie you to that chair?”

 

Then there is light shooting through him, bullets of throbbing pleasure that scatter down his thighs and up into his dick and he is  _ alive _ . McCree pants heavily, acutely aware of the stuffy interrogation room air against the cool sweat on his skin. It feels like being broken and remade again in a blaze of thrumming high, like forgetting everything he ever is or ever was, and he shudders into it helplessly. He’s feverish with it, with being entirely controlled by somebody else, with how sickeningly  _ good  _ it all feels.

 

His body feels like it doesn’t belong to him anymore - as though it’s discarded shrapnel that’s been spat out of this seething crossfire they’ve caught themselves up in. The scent of his own desperation is sharp in his nose and it's a struggle to remember to breathe, the tidal pull of inhale-exhale become skittering and pathetic in his lungs. He can barely feel his hands. The muscles of his legs jitter helplessly against the chair. It’s strange and terrifying and overpowering and Jesse McCree has never enjoyed something so much in his entire goddamn life.

 

When he dares to look up, he realises that Reyes is looking at him with something that’s almost reverence. It makes him feel like he is everything and nothing all at once. It makes precum leak, glistening, across his thighs. 

 

“Oh god,” Jesse says stupidly, “that’s-”

 

He’s so close that he can taste it on his tongue, that sweet rush of salt and euphoria and release. Jesse moans, helpless, letting the feeling take him over. It’s like having a hundred clever pairs of hands all stroking and caressing and fucking him at once. It’s too much, too intense, pleasure and pain straddling each other. 

 

He itches to just reach down and touch himself, to fuck his own hand and push himself over the edge, but Reyes - blazing, sacramental Reyes with his church-window divinity - is looking at him like he’s almost proud, and it’s too good to waste. There’s wonderful tight warmth in his balls ready to spill and release and he moans, hips stuttering, tight and full of shivers of anticipatory pleasure.

 

The worst part is the shock. Reyes snatches the prods away again just as he’s ready to cum. Jesse heaves at the sudden disappointment, whimpers at the vertiginous freefall away from the release he needs so damn badly that it hurts. 

 

“God fucking  _ damnit, _ ” he wails, forgetting himself. “Sonofa-” 

 

He’s drunk on the feral need to come, head swimming with it. He wants more friction, more electricity, more touch,  _ more _ . Reyes, of course, gives him nothing.

 

“What are you supposed to be learning?” Reyes’ voice is low and dangerous, like the humid, augural air before a storm. 

 

Jesse shudders. He whines, frustrated and pleasure-high, tries to breathe even though his lungs feel heavy. His dick feels like it’s been gripped too tight, aching and desperate and leaking with the need to just cum. Jesse makes a choked, sobbing sound of frustration. Reyes is teasing him and it’s all too much.

 

“I can’t-”

 

“What are you  _ learning _ , McCree?”

 

“To slow down,” he says finally, throat dry, gripping the chair like a drowned man clutching at too-thin debris in the futile hope of salvation. “I’m learnin’ to slow down, Boss, I’m learnin’ real good, please.  _ Please _ .” 

 

There’s a pause that he thinks might kill him. The sound of his own desperate panting fills his ears. But then Reyes says “good boy,” and he moans because suddenly all of the frustration is worth it. The praise is like benediction, and he laps it up from him like it’s spilt whiskey, because he’s  _ good _ ,  _ yes, good boy _ .

 

“Please,” he says again, staring at the prods just inches out of reach of his dick. The room smells of  _ them _ , of this weird, fucked up union they’ve made, of sweat and need and pacts that run deeper than bone. Jesse is wound so tightly that his body aches. His palms tingle with the urge to just get himself off, to tap out in submission, Reyes’ approval be damned. The thought spins in his head until it’s all he can think of, dizzying flashes of  _ touch-fuck-cum _ . “Please, Boss. I’m dyin’ here.” 

 

“Huh?” Reyes’ eyes meet his own, all mock-ignorance, and he knows he’s fucked. “Want something, cowboy?”

 

It’s humiliating to even answer. A mournful little moaning noise slips from his mouth. Jesse feels heat flush up his neck, sees himself for a second in Gabriel Reyes’ eyes: a wreck of a man, ankles twined around the legs of the interrogation room chair, damp thighs spread wide open, hair thick with sweat, whimpering pathetically to be allowed climax. He chokes on the words as though they’re smoke, tries not to say them, but they force out anyway.

 

“Let me cum?” Jesse hears the quiver in his own voice, hears how close it is to begging, and he’s so desperate that he’s only slightly ashamed. His lungs are paper moths burning with each drag of air he takes, and he’s shivering and twitching so hard with arousal that he’s sure he’s going to die. His stomach is sticky with thick lines of precum, and despite the heat of the room it makes a chill shudder across his skin. “This is killin’ me, Boss-”

 

And then the prods, the wonderful hum of electricity, are back on his dick, more powerful than ever. This time it’s definitely close to being painful, but he’s so helpless to his own pleasure that he keens, babbles some idle mantra of please, more, harder,  _ there _ , because he needs  _ something _ but he doesn’t have the words for it anymore. His body is trembling and his mind flatlines, focussed only on chasing the satisfaction that Reyes keeps denying him. 

 

His eyes flicker helplessly to Reyes’ hands, and he chokes on the memory of being touched, of rutting into Reyes’ fist like an animal in heat. Orgasm is clawing and desperate and just too far out of reach and he sobs, bites his tongue until he tastes dirty pennies because he’s torn between wanting to impress and just wanting those wonderful fingers to wrap around him and jerk him through his climax until he can’t think anymore. His skin feels burning and tight like armour fitted too-small, and each breath is a painful, pitiful sob. 

 

This time, when he starts to feel the prickling heat coiling between his legs, he forces himself to ride with it, to grit his hands and try to stop himself from coming undone. He gasps and whines and claws at the seat of the chair, trembling and sweaty from the exertion of being teased out for so long. Jesse grits his teeth so tightly that he feels the ache right down into his neck, and looks up at Reyes desperately as if to say  _ look at me I’m good I’ve learned I’m everything you wanted me to be _ . 

 

Reyes looks down at him, holds his gaze while Jesse shudders and chokes and his toes curl. He looks like he’s pleased with what he sees, a Pygmalion admiring the creation shaped by his own hands. His face is collected because Gabriel Reyes is  _ always  _ collected, always sharply professional like a well-oiled shotgun, but his breathing is faster than normal, eyes slightly glazed. Jesse pants through his arousal, realises what a mess they’ve made of each other.

 

“Good. You’re learning,” Reyes says, still pushing electricity through him, and McCree sobs, a broken sound of submission. He’s trembling with overstimulation, almost drooling with it, and the praise is almost enough to push him tumbling over the edge. 

 

“Boss,” he chokes, not even sure what he’s trying to say, only that he needs to say  _ something _ because it’s all too much, “I need - please.  _ Please _ .”

 

He expects the prods to disappear, tenses himself up in expectation of being denied again, all shuddering breaths and muscles coiled over-tight. His hands clench and unclench in spasms, desperate to keep a grip on himself.

 

This time when Reyes speaks, there’s a slight hitch in his voice, a husky edge of arousal that makes Jesse want to whine. “You want to cum, cowboy?” 

 

Frantically, he nods, looks up at the man who gave him everything and tries to tell himself that he isn’t pleading, that he isn’t begging. The unrelenting electricity keeps stroking and licking and kissing at his veins and he’s half sure he’ll die here like this. A long whining sound forces its way from him, unbidden. 

 

“Go on, then,” Reyes says, and Jesse hears the way his voice catches behind the nonchalance, sees the way he swallows as he watches him keening and shaking. 

 

He’s so surprised that he’s sure it’s a trick, that Reyes has some other torment planned to grab him away from what he needs. Jesse falters, pulled out in too many directions all at once, his mind a white, bleary haze of  _ fuck fuck fuck  _ and  _ cum cum cum _ . A line of sweat drips down his face, languid and horribly cool.

 

But then Reyes looks him dead in the eyes and says “cum for me,” in that effortlessly  commanding voice of his and it’s too much. 

 

Jesse moans, feels it flood over him in one hot, dizzying rush, submits completely to the convulsing contractions of the electric current and lets go. There’s a rush behind his eyes like cheap fireworks and spilt alcohol and cigar smoke, a spluttering haze of light and ecstasy that builds and builds and builds until it’s just splinters away from being too much. Frantic, Jesse clenches his eyes shut, feels the wonderful satisfying  _ ache _ in his balls, the caress of the too-sharp electricity, and rocks into it helplessly until he feels himself starts to unravel. He hears himself begging Reyes yes,  _ there _ , don’t-stop-don’t-stop-don’t-stop, words that don’t mean anything at all, but he can’t think of anything else, can only whimper helplessly through it until something snaps and he’s cumming all over his own lap in a thick, wet rush. His skin is suddenly cool and sticky and his ears are ringing but it keeps going, wave after wave of it that shudders through the topography of his veins like recoil after a shot. Jesse grinds helplessly through it, fucks himself on the bursts of electricity, and knows that he’s never felt so fucking  _ good  _ in his whole life. There’s a mumbled sound choking that he thinks is Reyes’ name said again and again until it’s utterly incomprehensible. 

 

He cums so hard that his mind feels blank and echoey afterwards, like an empty shooting range. Jesses pants and heaves, blissed out and so incredibly satisfied. Everything is tight and loose all at once, paradoxical and beautifully hazy. 

 

And he  _ does  _ want it to stop then, sticky and sated and every part of him feeling too sensitive, and he mewls pathetically to try to say that he’s had enough. He’s breathing so hard that he can barely speak, eyelashes damp. But Reyes does not stop. He keeps pushing and pushing, letting the current sweep through Jesse’s body. There’s an odd, pressured, tingling sensation pressing low in his pelvis, and he wriggles uncomfortably, trying to make sense of it. He feels so warm and so  _ full _ , as though he needs to piss.

 

His eyes fly open as he realises that that’s  _ exactly  _ what it is. 

 

“Oh, shit. Shit, shit,  _ shit _ , boss, you gotta-” Jesse yells, feels heat rush to his face, tries to tell Reyes why he needs to stop, but it’s too late. There’s a soft, wet trickle across his thighs, and he’s ashamed at how horribly  _ good _ it feels. He moans mournfully, his face burning so hot that he feels like his nose might bleed, but Reyes is smiling with satisfaction as though he intended this all along.

 

Jesse whines, still rabbit-hearted and sex-numbed, and tries hopelessly to clench down, to do anything to make it stop, but his muscles refuse to obey him. His body betrays him, spasming weakly with sex and electricity. And then he’s pissing, trembling and hot with embarrassment, and it feels so fucking good that he wants to die. He feels it run down his legs, hears the soft-sharp splatter as it soaks the chair, and can’t do anything except keep gasping for air. The scent of urine hits his nose, and Jesse wants to cover his face with his hands so that Reyes will stop looking at him, but there’s no strength left in his arms and so he just lets it wash over him, almost moaning, humiliated and utterly blissful all at once. 

 

Finally, when he’s done, the prods turn off. The room is silent apart from the sounds of Jesse heaving for breath, and the rhythmic dripping of piss as it runs from the chair to the floor.

 

“Good boy,” Reyes says, and he’s so happy he almost sobs. He is light and soft and dizzy with pleasure, drunk on Gabriel Reyes, and every part of him is sated. “Good boy. You did well.” And then there’s a warm, calloused hand stroking roughly through his sweaty hair. Jesse just shivers and leans into the touch. He feels so weak that he barely trusts himself to stay sitting. 

 

Reyes lets out a laugh, half disgusted, half proud. “You’re a mess, McCree.”

 

And he is, he knows he is. He’s a mess in every possible sense - sticky and euphoric and dazed. In his post-orgasm haze, he almost toys with telling Reyes that he is  _ everything _ . Instead he huffs lightly, smiles, lets himself enjoy the come-down. His skin tingles pleasantly all over and his breathing slowly calms by fractions. In this moment, he thinks he wants  _ this  _ to last forever. 

 

It doesn’t, of course. His breathing returns to normal, and he gets Reyes off awkwardly with still-trembling hands, and they clean the piss and cum and sweat away with steely efficiency. But, he thinks, lying in his bunk later, still aching from the strength of the prods, it doesn’t have to. He’s had enough with being superlative, tired of  _ best  _ and  _ strongest  _ and  _ forever _ . Being with each other is just about being  _ enough. _

 

Sometimes, he thinks Reyes knows that too. 

**Author's Note:**

> (I'm sorry for the terrible Muse title)
> 
> [You can find me on twitter as @mitten_crab!](https://twitter.com/mitten_crab/)   
> 


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